When I Grew Up, I Put Away Childish Things
by LeonaWriter
Summary: When he'd been young, he'd wanted to be a detective.  But, in time, he grew to realise that it wasn't really practical.  Then he discovered flying, and while he never really forgot about his original dream, he loves it.
1. Douglas

When I Grew Up, I Put Away Childish Things

...

The Captain of MJN Air flailed somewhat, under the scrutiny of his First Officer. Douglas was looking at him, interested, and actually taking note of several things about the other pilot that he'd usually just passed over.

"So," Douglas said. "where, exactly, did that come from?"

He winced. He'd hoped it'd gone unnoticed, or that it would be ignored, but not this. He didn't like drawing attention to that part of himself any more.

"N-nothing," he stammered out. "Just- nothing. I didn't- anyone could have- it wasn't-"

Douglas held up a hand against the onslaught, a slight frown on his face.

"That, _sir_, was hardly _nothing_." The shorter man in the other chair's face grew red as he tried to sink into the chair. An act which, since while he was shorter than his First Officer yet still taller perhaps than some, did not quite have the desired effect. "You know, this is the _first_ time in as many years that I've been with MJN, that Mr. Birling both had all of his Talisker whiskey _and_ presented us with some _rather impressive_ tips for our efforts. And believe me, I _certainly_ was not intending on the first of these."

"I'm not going to say I'm sorry!" The captain blurted out, a poor impression of confidence coming off too loudly to be believed. "Because I'm not. And it would've been wrong of you to steal it in the first place."

"...You know, I'm not _actually_ as annoyed with you for it as much as I am _curious_. Just where did you learn to think like that? I could almost have thought you were, _heaven forbid_, extremely intelligent, for a moment there."

"I wasn't... I wasn't _taught_. Not- not exactly. It just... I mean..."

"If there's something you'd like to say, Captain..."

"Oh, all _right. _Fine! If you must know, when I was younger, I wanted to be. Well, I wanted to be a detective. There, you can laugh now."

And the Captain proceeded to look steadfastly away from his First Officer, concentrating on the controls and the rather nice view out of the window.

Douglas wasn't laughing. Hesitantly, he sneaked a look to the side, and saw that he was, in fact, frowning a little in thought.

"I have a question for you."

"Oh?"

Try and pretend it's no big deal. It could be about, literally, _anything_.

"Why, if you can think like that, did you choose to become a pilot? You could have... I don't know. Become a detective. Or at least a better pilot."

"I... I guess I sort of grew out of it. And- and besides, my brother, he's older than me, he's better at that sort of stuff. So I never really felt the need to, you know... actually go for it. I mean, he's got people to go to for whatever he wants, he didn't need me, and..."

There was a long pause.

"I... see."

"And I mean sure, I was _okay_, but it was all just a phase, you know? And really, in the end, I went with something I figured I could actually _do_. That was _useful_. And I found that I actually really _enjoy_ flying, you know?"

"I have noticed that, yes."

Their discussion was brought to an abrupt end by the sudden arrival of Carolyn in the doorway.

"Right then, my twin angels with more than slightly clipped wings! ...Ah, Sherlock. I see you have your hat back."

"Er, yes..."

In just a few minutes, once Carolyn was gone again, Douglas realised something.

"Sherlock."

"Yes, Douglas?"

"What was it you said your brother did, again? Out of curiosity, of course."

Sherlock Holmes, Captain of MJN Air, sighed.

"He's the British Government."

It was the single most depressed that Douglas had heard the other pilot in their entire shared career, and, given Sherlock's usual luck, that was saying something.

"...Ah."

...

AN: And from there _everything changes in CP canon. EVERYTHING._

Bet you didn't see that one coming~


	2. Mycroft

When I Grew Up, I Put Away Childish Things

...

**Some Years in the Past (But Not Too Many)**

Sherlock looked around the airport they'd arrived at, filled with a nervous tension that irritated his brother to no end.

"Did I have to come with you?"

Mycroft sighed, and pinched his nose.

"Sherlock, I've already told you several times. The conference I've been invited to necessitated a plus one, and since you do happen to be family, you counted as a viable option, and somewhat more intelligent than most others, so long as I ignore that idiotic ambition of yours."

"It's not idiotic."

"You're smarter than this, and you've already failed four times."

"Five."

"That isn't something to be proud of."

"No, but-! Oh, never mind..."

Sherlock sighed, and went back to watching the people in the airport while waiting for the taxi, and fidgeting, tapping his feet without any given rhythm.

"Why Florida, though? Why couldn't it have been somewhere else?"

"It's not up to me to decide where the annual conferences are held, Sherlock, and besides. It was the flight over here that finally persuaded you to stop sulking over that most recent failure."

Sherlock nodded, remembering, but this did nothing brighten up his mood. Mycroft checked his watch. The taxi was late.

"If you want, you can go out and play at being a tourist. I'll call you when we have the agenda, and I'll send someone out to collect you when you're needed. Does that sound better?"

Sherlock nodded, feeling a bit less like a dog held by its owner's leash, and started to gather up his things, only to be stopped by his brother.

"You don't need to do that. I'll have everything brought with me to the hotel we'll be staying at. All you need is your hand luggage, which is where you put your wallet and phone if I'm correct."

He was. And Sherlock dropped all of his other bags, and left his older brother there in the airport, that aide of his still tapping away at that smartphone of hers.

Florida, it turned out, was very hot. And, with his hand luggage full of things he'd thought he might need while on the plane that he hadn't actually ended up using, he was pretty weighed down.

Still, curiosity had won out when he'd heard an argument breaking out between an old woman and some officious sounding voices. Partially, or perhaps more than partially, because the woman sounded _British. _

Several hours later, when Mycroft had phoned, he had admitted that he was at the police station, and that no, he hadn't done anything wrong, and no, he wasn't in trouble anyway. He'd just said something offhand and now people were trying to ask him about it.

Mycroft, predictably, had been rather annoyed at the time. Not least because this meant that Sherlock had ended up being late, and that reflected badly on both of them.

...

AN: ...Yes, that old lady was who you think she might have been. Unless you were thinking of the wrong person, in which case she wasn't.


	3. Mike Stamford

When I Grew Up, I Put Away Childish Things

...

**Several Years in the Past (But Somewhat Fewer Than Last Time)**

He was working on a paper when they walked in.

Not one of his own, though - he didn't have that sort of position, just a part time, one the side job, when he was free and when he was in the country. So really, all he was doing was copying out _someone else's_ paper from the notes they'd taken. It wasn't much, but it was something, and they pay was all right, and it was quiet work, the kind where they didn't mind what kind of hours you worked.

Absorbed in his work as he'd been, he'd still noticed the door open, stay open for just long enough for one person and a friend with a walking stick to come through, and then close. He didn't look away from the screen - the more distractions he had, the later he'd be home, and the less sleep he'd have, meaning the more tired he'd be on the flight to Scandinavia in three days' time.

"Ah - here he is. John Watson, this is a friend of mine, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, John Watson. We knew each other back in the old days."

It was only then that he looked away - it'd not be polite to ignore the introduction, after all, and as he did he noticed the man Mike Stamford was standing next to.

Short, well, shorter than he was, light brown-blond hair and a military posture. The stick was his, and he used it as he walked but not as he stood. Tanned, but not above the wrist - he could see that as John Watson reached out a hand to shake his. Firm grip, calluses from familiarity with handarms, but something else that suggested 'doctor'.

All of that concluded one of two things and a third related thing, but he didn't say any of it, instead opting for something a little less likely to put the man off from the get go.

"Pleased to meet you, uh, Dr… Watson?"

He already knew the answer, but Dr. Watson smiled and nodded.

"Yeah, doctor. How'd you…?"

"Well, when Mike said you'd gone to St. Bart's together, I… sorry, was that too-?"

"What? Oh, right! Of course. How silly of me. No, it's fine."

Obvious, really, wasn't it? All of his deductions were, just things people always noticed anyway, they just didn't put them together, and didn't that make them feel _silly_ when he pointed it all out?

That, really, was why he generally tended to not do exactly that.

"Anyway," said Mike, clearing his throat and interrupting Sherlock's train of thought, "I bumped into John here earlier and you know what he said to me?" Sherlock blinked - maybe that would be enough so that he wouldn't have to lie and say he hadn't pieced it all together? "Only exactly the same thing as you did! You know, how you were looking for a flatmate? You could just about afford that place if you pooled your resources," he ended on a hopeful note, looking from one to the other.

"Oh. _Oh_. Right. Um, yes. Although I'll have you know I'm likely to be absent for days on end - I'm an airline pilot, you see, a Captain, really! And, I sometimes play the violin. You don't mind, do you?"

John looked slightly confused but, strangely enough, _interested_, and Mike had a smug look about him that irritated Sherlock somehow.

And then he received a text, and with a moan of frustration had to save the file for another time and dash out of the door.

He'd almost forgotten one very important thing. Nearly tearing his hair out, he ran back, leaning inside just far enough that he could be seen and heard.

"Sorry! The address is 221b Baker Street, and I hope 2pm tomorrow isn't too bad for you? Um, got to go, really urgent, sorry!"

And with that, he had to leave, hoping that he hadn't scared the poor man off completely.

…

AN: There may be another bit with Mrs. Hudson. Because of backstory.


End file.
